


Some Kind Of Love Story

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6586486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History isn't necessarily written by the winners, but it's definitely written by the survivors. None of the survivors were there to see how Irissë and Eöl began. And they only had Turukano's word on how it ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This should go without saying, but just to be clear: the poetry is not mine - it is the work of Robert Frost.

_Some say the world will end in fire,_  
_Some say in ice._  
_From what I’ve tasted of desire_  
_I hold with those who favor fire._

The room was dark when she woke, and Irissë was still deliciously sleepy. Too sleepy to move just yet – and not awake enough to recall immediately where she was, or why there was someone else in the bed, with an arm thrown around her. The body she was snuggled against was definitely male, and not Tyelko. She would have known him at once. 

Then she remembered. 

Dear Valar, she’s _married_. 

She wasn’t sure that she was really bothered so much about the married part – though she’s not entirely sure she’s ok with that bit either – as by the realization that she will someday have to explain to her mother that she married a dark elf she’d only just met earlier that same day _by accident_.

Fortunately, with her mother still in Tirion, an ocean away in more ways than one, that day of reckoning was far off and remote. It might not occur before the end of the world. So at the very least, Irissë had some time to decide how she felt about being married.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t intended to get married. That had been very much her plan when she won her argument with Turvo about leaving Ondolindë. She hadn’t told him that, of course, because if her stupidly overprotective big brother had any inkling what she had in mind, he would have never let her go. While it was theoretically possible that he might someday forgive the betrayal that had cost his beloved Elenwë her life on the Ice, he hadn’t yet, and Irissë wasn’t holding her breath on that score.

But she’d been fed up with her golden cage, and she wanted to see Tyelkormo, to tell him she had forgiven him. To insist that he stop pretending that his Oath meant they couldn’t marry – given that she fell under the Doom either way, it was silly for him to imagine that the two of them remaining apart somehow protected her. For all he knew, her presence might well protect him – as Artanis had acidly pointed out on more than one occasion, Tyelko was hardly the brains of their partnership.

The two of them had long ago decided that if his father wanted to insist that her father was only his _half_ brother, that made them only _half_ cousins, which meant there was no bar to them marrying. Here in Beleriand, there was even less, for the moriquendi did not keep all the Laws and Customs the amanyar did.

She and Tyelko had discovered shortly after Irissë had come of age that for the elves that had remained in Endorë, shunning the great journey, to bed was not necessarily to wed. How Tyelko had stumbled across that information, she never had discovered. He was not normally the bookish type, which led her to suspect that he had overheard his older brothers or grandfather discussing something not meant for his ears. Or so she had thought at the time – it has occurred to her more recently to wonder.

“It’s very simple, really,” Tyelko had told her, looking amazed how easy it was. “As long as the Name is not invoked, there is no binding of fëar – so no marriage.”

They had gathered their courage enough to try it – as ever, they were far bolder together than either one would have been separately – and discovered that they could indeed join their hroar without binding themselves to each other. It had felt terribly daring the first time they had done it, though Irissë had secretly reassured herself that even if it didn’t work as they expected, the worst that could happen was that they would be wed, horrifying their mothers and causing yet another minor scandal that the upper crust of Tirion would delight in tittering over until something more interesting occurred. 

Afterwards, they had done it as often as they dared – which in practice meant as often as they could get away from their siblings and parents. Artanis had known, of course, and had even covered for them on occasion, but no one else. So far as Irissë knew, her cousin had never betrayed her secret to anyone. If she had, the first encounter between the Sindar and the Noldor might have gone smoother.

Their trick had not been common knowledge among the host that had followed Irissë’s father and cousin Finderato to Beleriand. After their first feast with their long-sundered kin, a few neri had found themselves unexpectedly married to Sindarin nissi who were not entirely pleased about the situation, having not realized that the Noldor would not know the difference between _joining_ and _binding_. Irissë had felt slightly guilty, but if she had tried to warn them, she would have had to explain how she had known – and she certainly would have had to justify herself to her father. 

After that, the entire host had quickly learned the Sindar had a more permissive view of sex than the Noldor, and Irissë knew perfectly well she was not the only Noldorin nis who had come to prefer their ways. She and Artanis had been amused at the outrage among the neri at the idea that nissi might find such practices acceptable – and a little angered, because they knew some of the neri protesting the most vigorously happily indulged in those same practices themselves but expected that Noldorin nissi should not do the same. 

All this was why her marriage came as a surprise. 

Eöl was one of Elwë’s lords, a Sinda. He had happened on her bathing in the woods of Nan Elmoth, and been intrigued that unlike most Noldorin nissi, nudity bothered her not at all – nor had it stopped her drawing her sword when he strode onto the lakeshore, startling her.

Despite it being quite clear that she was one of the golodhrim – and the average Sinda had no particular fondness for the Exiles these days – he had offered her hospitality courteously enough. 

“A lady, princess of the Noldor or not, might find bathing in my house more agreeable than in the chill waters of the Lossael,” he had suggested.

He might have been mocking her – actually, she’s quite sure there was mockery in the words, but more for her ignorance that the lake she had chosen was swollen with snow melt than for her nobility or Noldorin birth. The water had been chilly, yes, but after the Helcaraxë anything else was warm, and she had decided being dirty from riding in circles for the past few days when she had definitely not been lost was more irritating than cold water.

He had not looked away, as a Noldo would have, as she dressed – and she had refused to rush, pointedly clothing herself at her own pace to prove that she was not bothered by his staring. 

His hall was not overly large, with as much space and care given to his forge as to his living quarters, but it was neither small nor mean, and it was graciously appointed. It was not what she had known in Tirion, but she had met with enough Sindarin nobles to recognize that it was elegant according to their tastes and style. She found no fault in it, nor in his manners as he offered her food and drink before conducting her to what she suspected to be his own bathing room. 

As ever, she had more nerve than sense – she had boldly invited him to bathe with her. 

He was handsome – and unlike most Noldorin neri, unintimidated by her. If anything, he seemed almost amused by her daring. And she was honest enough to admit that challenging a ner who probably had far more experience than she did in the ways of pleasure hadn’t been the wisest thing she had ever done. She had expected a fling, to be diverted from her renewed anger at her orc-brained half-cousin and sometimes lover. It had never entered her head when she had begun what seemed like a bit of harmless fun that he might bind them to each other.

The first few times had been all that she could have hoped. Unlike Tyelko, who relied on sheer enthusiasm to make up for what he lacked in technique or finesse, Eöl played her body as masterfully as Makalaurë played the harp. It had been utter ecstasy.

It was the third time when, just before they reached their climax, the name of Eru had fallen unexpectedly from his lips. Irissë had been too involved in the sensations of her own body to notice immediately. Before she understood what was happening, he had coaxed her into saying the Name as well. (Given that she had been seeing all Varda’s stars at the time, she would have happily said anything he wanted just as long as he didn’t stop.)

Married. 

She had no doubt that any other elf who looked on her now would see the bond in her eyes, and his. Eöl’s. Her husband’s. How odd that sounded.

She wasn’t sure if Turvo would take this better or worse than if she’d married Tyelko as she’d originally intended. Probably worse. At least he knew Tyelko. Detested, yes. Wished loss of his heart’s desire followed by painful death on, true, but knew from his earliest days, and trusted to a certain very small degree, even now.

He neither knew nor trusted the moriquendi. 

Eöl was stirring, pulling her more snugly against him, kissing the back of her neck as he murmured something in Sindarin. She wasn’t sure what he was saying, for her command of the language was not good enough to understand his sleep-slurred words.

Yavanna’s tits- she would actually have to learn Sindarin properly now. She can’t imagine her new husband allowing her to continue to flout Thingol’s ridiculous ban as her brother’s city and her half-cousins do. On the bright side, this meant she might have escaped the stifling confines of Ondolindë for good…

_You are thinking far too much this early in the morning_ , Eol said, his voice not in her ears, but in her head, where previously only her brothers, parents, grandmother, and her closest cousins have spoken. 

Given where his hands were roaming, she was perfectly happy to leave the thinking until later.


	2. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eöl's version of how it started.

Eöl smiled drowsily and pulled his new wife tighter against him, relishing the feeling of her body tucked against his. He could get used to this. Though he could scarce believe the difference a day could make – had anyone told him as recently as twenty-four hours ago that he would marry, much less marry one of the golodhrim, he would have told them to have their head examined. 

He probably would have been rather rude about it, actually.

As recently as this morning, his life had been proceeding in the same comfortable rhythm it had been since before the Exiles had arrived in Ennor. He had been in the forge, quite happily occupied with no thought of marriage in his head.

He had known for several days that there was someone abroad in the forest. Whoever it was, they were alone and meant no evil. Since navigating Nan Elmoth could be difficult and disorienting to those not used to the echoes of the power of Queen Melian, he couldn’t see that there was any great hurry to confront the intruder. Especially not when he was in the middle of a series of experiments on the properties of the fascinating new metal the dwarves of Belegost had brought on their last visit.

By the time he was satisfied that he could break off his investigation, he was sure the hapless elf – for he knew it to be an elf – would be wandering in circles. That was usually the way of it. He had, over the past few hundred years, had to steer several golodhrim out of his lands– not only did he not trust most of them, he was a vassal of Elu Thingol, and the King had barred the Exiles from his realm.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that Nan Elmoth bordered the lands the Kinslayers had taken as their own. Eöl disliked his neighbors to the north, the lords Curufin and Celegorm – the one was too clever by half, the other not clever enough. In the first years they had held Himlad, Celegorm had repeatedly strayed into the forest. Eöl had not been able to discover the true reasons for his incursions – Fëanor’s third son was neither as charming nor as honest as he seemed to believe he appeared to others – nor did he care. 

If it turned out to be Celegorm again, Eöl might just let him wander until he was well and truly desperate. A good year or two of being lost might be just the thing. It wasn’t as if he’d starve.

To his pleasant surprise, it was not Celegorm – it was not an ellon at all. It was an elleth, and a passing fair one at that. Despite riding alone, and being lost for some days, she showed neither fear nor frustration. Though he could have intercepted her as she rode close to his hall, Eöl chose instead to follow her unobserved. 

After several hours, she let out a soft sigh he found at decided odds with her no-nonsense attitude.

“It is no good, Surë,” she announced to her horse. “We have been this way twice already today.”

She was quicker than most, to spot that.

The horse tossed his head, showing far more irritation than his rider.

“There was water off in that direction,” the rider continued. “I have been too long in the saddle. We shall stop so that I can bathe. After that, Valar willing I can find something for you to eat.”

Eöl should have announced himself at that point – he knew full well the golodhrim were prudish, and preferred not to let others see them unclothed. But a part of him that was quite fed up with his neighbors thought that if this was one of their women, a shock like being caught by a dark elf while bathing just might be the thing to make it clear they should not trespass. And a part of him that simply appreciated the beauty of the unknown elleth enjoyed the thought of seeing a bit more of her.

So he waited until she had left her clothes folded neatly by the horse and plunged into the Snowmere – which he could not imagine was in any way comfortable at this time of year, with spring only just beginning in earnest – before he made his presence known.

He strode out onto the shore of lake, putting himself between her and the trees, but not between her and her clothes or her horse. That would be going too far.

She reacted at once – and not at all as he’d expected. Rather than any sort of shrieks or belated attempt to cover herself for modesty’s sake, she lunged at once for the sword she’d left with horse and clothes on the shore.

It was perhaps one of the most stirring sights he’d ever behold – a gorgeous elleth, stark naked and dripping wet, holding a finely wrought sword steady in her hand.

“Well met, my lady,” he said, trying not to smirk at the look of irritation that crossed her face. He made sure to speak slowly – despite the Ban, a good many of the golodhrim had never taken the trouble to learn Sindarin. “I am Eöl, lord of Nan Elmoth. Who are you and what brings you to my lands?”

She blinked. After a moment’s hesitation, she lowered the sword, though he noted with approval that she did not sheathe it, but kept it in hand. She had, then, learned that it was best to be cautious. That alone made her cleverer than most golodhrim he had encountered.

“I am Irissë Nolofinwiel,” she replied, surprising him by replying in the same language she’d been addressed in. “I know not that these lands were Sindar. I sought the road to Nargothrond, to visit my kinsman Finrod and his brothers.”

From the careful way she spoke, and the slight errors that crept in, Eöl guessed she did not use Sindarin in day to day conversation, but it was not as bad as he might have expected. 

“Nolofinwiel?” he repeated in surprise. “I am speaking to the daughter of the king?”

“Yes, my father is High King,” she replied, with a slight emphasis on _high_. 

He did not show his surprise, but he did reassess his original plan. To discomfit one of the Kinslayers’ followers was one thing, to insult the daughter of the golodhrim king was another. 

“And what brings a princess to bathe in such chill waters?” he asked, playing for time while he tried to work out the best course of action. 

Much though he would like to, he couldn’t very well haul her to Menegroth and let this be Thingol’s problem, for the only golodhrim welcome there were Galadriel and her brothers – the very cousins this Irissë was seeking if she spoke truly. 

“Need I a reason to wish to be clean?” she shot back.

He smirked at that, as he could tell her aggravation was rising as much at the limitation placed on her by the need to speak Sindarin as at his question.

“Whence do you come, that the road to Nargothrond leads through my forest?” he asked. 

Fingolfin and his sons were further west, in Hithlum and Nevrast, meaning Nan Elmoth would be considerably out of her way. With Doriath barred to her, it would require a ride through the Valley of Dreadful Death.

The look on her face was priceless. She had quite forgotten her nakedness. Whatever brought her here, someone other than him had roused her temper well and truly. 

“I am come from Himlad, where my…” 

He didn’t understand most of the words that followed. Though he had learned some of the language of the golodhrim, he could not follow it as such speed. But from her tone and the odd word or two he did catch, he gathered that nearly every last word was an insult. At some point, they must trade vocabulary. It would profit them both. 

“… _cousins_ are bad hosts or idiots who think I will just sit around forever waiting for them, which I am not going to do!”

Eöl dearly hoped Celegorm was the ‘idiot’ in this. How sweet it would be to throw in that puffed up ass’s face that he had listened to this magnificent elleth share her low opinion of him. Naked. He wasn’t sure which part would infuriate the Fëanorion more, but he was willing to find out.

“I do not pretend to understand the entirety of your quarrel with the lords Celegorm and Curufin,” he began, not quite concealing his amusement at her tirade. 

He had to continue quickly before she took up her insults again, because whatever her objectionable cousins had done, she was quite happy to share the full measure of her outrage. 

“But I am certain it would be more comfortable for any lady, king’s daughter or not, to bathe in my hall rather than in the Snowmere. Please allow me to offer you my hospitality.”

She blinked. Whatever she had expected of him, that had not been it.

“I thank you,” she said slowly. “It is a generous offer. I should like that very much.”

He noted that these phrases, well suited to diplomacy and polite meetings, flowed much smoother from her lips.

She dressed, and he was amused to see she deliberately took her time doing so. No doubt she meant to show that she would not be intimidated by his presence or embarrassed by his frankly admiring glances. Knowing what he did of the golodhrim, he doubted very much she was considering what other effects prolonging his sight of her nude form might have. Golodhrim ellith, he had heard, were told nothing of the ways of ellyn and ellith until they were betrothed. 

Their ways had been a shock to the Sindar. Oropher and Celeborn had been the first representatives sent to meet the newly arrived golodhrim, and had returned short several of their retainers with the startling news that for their kin returned from the Blessed Lands, to bed was to wed. 

It had been almost comical to observe how carefully the ellith had kept their distance when the children of Finarfin visited Menegroth several months later. (Even more comical had been observing how many of the ellyn had taken it upon themselves to keep company with Finarfin’s daughter – much to her brothers’ disapproval. Not a one of them would actually touch her, not with Celeborn’s interest so plain, but the Finarfinions had not known that.)

When she was ready, he waited for her to mount, but to his surprise, she prepared to lead her horse.

At his raised eyebrow, she shrugged.

“You are not riding,” she pointed out, a touch defensively.

“As you will, my lady,” he replied. “It is no slight if you choose to walk or ride. It is not far.”

By the time they reached his hall, he was curious to see her reaction. Though he lived comfortably, it was nowhere near as grand as Menegroth, and from what he gathered, the Noldor had lived in luxury in Aman, to the point that most of them had initially thought the Sindar little better than savages.

The practiced eye she cast over the modest courtyard he has placed his buildings around suggested that she had seen enough of what the Sindar deem stylish to judge accurately.

His main hall was situated between the forge on one side and the stable block on the other. Unlike most Sindarin dwellings, there was little in the way of greenery to brighten the exterior, for Nan Elmoth was too dark for most of the flowers his people prized. The true drawback of the perpetual twilight was that unlike most Sindar, his kitchen garden was small indeed- he must trade for much of what he eats.

Despite the challenges of the forest, it was still a well-designed and pleasing complex. He did not truly expect the princess to appreciate the forge –by her hands she might be a hunter, but certainly no smith. Her expression rested approvingly on the stables, however. 

His steward came forth to take charge of her horse, and if Irissë kept a sharp eye on the woman as she led the animal away, it was only to be expected. Eöl had yet to meet an elf, Noldo or Sinda, who was not particular about the care of their steed. 

The gasp Irissë let out as he led her inside was most satisfactory.

She certainly had not expected such a light, airy hall, pleasantly warm even as the evening turned chill, and without a trace of damp. But though he may not have the power of Melian at his disposal, Eöl had made a careful study of what could be achieved by elves alone before he built. Being Thingol’s kinsman, and holding this land at the King’s behest, he had not lacked for aid in the building. So long as one did not linger on the view out the windows, it was possible to forget the lack of sunlight outside.

She might not be able to express it adequately, but it was clear enough that she was impressed.

“It is… enegant?” she offered, obviously aware that she was mangling the word. Her irritation was fleeting, however, as she turned about to admire the space.

“Elegant?” he replied lightly, trying not to let his satisfaction show. It would not do to be smug. “I am pleased you deem it so. I put much effort into the design.”

“It is your own plan?” she asked in surprise.

“Mostly my own. I am not too proud to admit that others added their suggestions on how it might be improved upon.”

He waved at the hearth, which, though smaller than in most halls of this size, was heating the room very well.

“The dwarves were quite helpful with the heating and water systems, as they have much experience in such matters, both in their own places as well as in the delving of Menegroth. I believe your kinsman Finrod also availed himself of their skills in the making of Nargothrond. And of course, I would have been a fool to refuse the queen and princess when they offered to aid in the interior decoration.”

“I meet not many who brag about their plumbing, my lord,” Irissë said. Her tone was demure, but her eyes danced.  
He snorted.

“That is because most do not have plumbing worth bragging about,” he said dismissively. “Would the noble lady prefer to eat first, or resume her bath?”

It was not much of a choice, really, not with Maeason bringing in a meal to set the mouth of even the haughtiest golodh watering. Fortunately, his guest was too polite to offend the cook by choosing ‘bathe’. Or perhaps too hungry – though one could certainly find food in Nan Elmoth, it took time to learn where to look.

Eöl was happy to eat as well. He had all but ignored the demands of his body while absorbed in his experiments. Irissë’s apologetic excuse that she did not feel herself equal to not butchering the Sindarin language while eating for the first time in several days gave him much needed time to think as they ate.

By the time he showed her to his guest room where he knew there would be a steaming bath awaiting her, he had resolved that after allowing her a day or two to recover, he would guide her to the southern edge of Nan Elmoth and see her on her way. 

If Thingol didn’t like it, then he could jolly well give his sister-son better guidance on what was expected of him when dealing with lost golodhrim. 

That had been his plan. All his good intentions hit the floor with Irissë’s clothes and her impish suggestion that she would need someone to wash her back.

His jaw had nearly hit the floor as well. She was a golodh – supposed to remain virginal until she married. Surely she didn’t mean… she _couldn’t_ mean… could she?

“I do not think that would be a good idea,” he had all but growled.

“Afraid of a golodhwen?” she teased. “I don’t bite – unless you want me to.”

The look in her eye convinced him she did truly mean it the way his Sindarin ears (and brain, and other body parts) heard it.

He hadn’t meant to marry her. Not then, at least. His initial thought was less exalted. He meant to not only have his pleasure of her, but to utterly ruin her for any Noldo. She was going to compare every ellon she had in her bed for the rest of time to him. Her husband, whoever he might eventually be – and after that tirade, he dared hope it was Celegorm’s life he was making difficult – would never satisfy her as he would.

It hadn’t been difficult. He had quickly discovered that whoever she had been with before had known little of how to please an elleth – or had not taken the time to do so properly. If her other lovers had been golodhrim, it was probably ignorance. If they had been Sindar, they had probably not taken the time, likely too worried about being caught fucking the king’s daughter. It mattered not. Not when he was causing her such ecstasy, not when she was making such delightful noises beneath him.

It was somewhere between carrying her to the bed and her discovery that he was a far more enjoyable mount than her horse that he realized he did not want to let her go. It was not as he’d heard others describe meeting their mates, an absolute knowledge that they had found the one meant for them. It was more a dazed certainty that he could no more walk away from the blazing star that was Irissë Nolofinwiel than he could stop breathing. 

It was no accident, no matter what anyone might imply later. Like most Sindar, he had heard the cautionary tales and always took care not to let the Name tumble out in that moment of glorious release. He wanted to say it. It was both blessing and prayer, a thank you to the One for bringing this amazing woman to his door when she should have been in Himlad with her cousins.

But he would not have it whispered that he took her to wife against her will – for he had just enough wits about him to realize that was something her kin might accuse him of. He teased her with mouth, fingers, and manhood until she had _screamed_ the Name. They may well have heard her in Menegroth.

He fell asleep curled around an exhausted and utterly sated Irissë, feeling their hearts beating in tandem, secure in the knowledge that she was his and he was hers until the end of all things.


	3. By Any Other Name

Irissë was startled when next she woke to realize how time had passed. They hadn’t left the bed all day. Though she wasn’t usually the type to stay abed, she felt no inclination to move. Not only was she quite comfortable, she had to think so hard to recall when she’d last had such a lazy, relaxing day that she could only conclude it had been far too long. In her brother’s city, there was always something she ought to be doing, even if she occasionally neglected to do it in favor of riding, or dancing with Itarillë, or really anything to distract herself from the mind-numbing tedium of endless days and nights in a gilded cage.

It was a wonder she hadn’t insisted on leaving sooner. Even if leaving hadn’t gone quite as she’d planned… 

Though, in truth, despite her sudden marriage, she felt she had scant grounds for complaint. Eöl was a skilled and considerate lover, his house was clean and well-ordered, and if he preferred to spend much of his time in his forge, that made him no different than a good many she’d known in Tirion. So long as he was saner than her uncle, she had no worries on that score.

Looking around the room as her husband began to stir, she realized that at some point, one of Eöl’s retainers must have slipped in while they dozed and left food, for a tray had discreetly appeared on a table by the door. 

Irissë raised an eyebrow.

“Do you entertain women often enough that your people know to do such a thing?” she asked, undecided if she should be thankful for the thoughtfulness or not.

Eöl laughed.

“I do not believe I have ever ‘entertained’ a woman here,” he replied, pulling her back to him. He seemed to enjoy holding her, even when they were not actually joining. “I may be kin to Thingol, but I am not so sought after that ellith would chase me to my hall, remote as it is from the rest of the kingdom. I usually indulge only when I attend festivities at Menegroth.”

She couldn’t help the frisson of resentment that ran through her at that name –and she knew he had caught it. Their bond was too new for her to have any idea how to keep such things from him.

“Is it Menegroth that displeases you, or Elu Thingol?” he asked carefully.

“Your king, not his hall,” she replied tartly. 

“You cannot have met him,” Eöl said softly, “so what reason have you to dislike him so?”

She could feel his trepidation, and his sudden worry that he might well have stumbled into a conflict of loyalties so soon. He knew full well the Noldor were proud and cared neither for Thingol’s ban on their language or his barring them from his borders.

She tried not to let herself get more upset, for she was not Fëanaro to demand that others choose between their kin. And she was well aware it was both silly and childish of her to be so angry still. But she’s kept this bottled up inside for three hundred years, and who can she tell her frustrations to if not her husband? Her brother has never cared to hear it.

“What reason have I not to dislike him,” she said slowly, “when he bars me from my dearest kinswoman?”

Eol said nothing, but she could feel that he was listening, and not just with his ears. There was no trace of condescension or mockery. He wanted to know. He would hear whatever she had to say. 

She wasn’t sure why he had suddenly decided to bind them to each other, so it was that unexpected desire to understand her mind that made her first decide to trust him with more than just her body, to believe that this marriage could perhaps be more than an utterly mortifying mistake. 

So she told him. 

She told him about Artanis Nerwen, her fearless other self, more sister than cousin so often were they together, and begotten in the same month besides. Their mothers were good friends in addition to being law-sisters, so even before she and Artanis had been born they had been each other’s closest companion. They had been the youngest grandchildren of Finwë, and as the only girls in a large family of boys, Artanis had been the only other one who truly understood the trial of having so very many protective older brothers and kinsmen constantly hovering.

It was a rare day in her childhood when she had not seen her cousin – saving only those times when her uncle and his family were visiting Eärwen’s kin, and even then, once Irissë was old enough to travel without her parents, she had often been invited along. They had shared a schoolroom, and pushed each other to excel, constantly encouraging each other to outdo their brothers. When it came to less scholarly talents, Artanis had been the faster runner and Irissë the better shot, but they were otherwise fairly evenly matched. 

They had been together in all things, save two – Irissë’s closeness with Tyelko, and Alqualondë. Faced with the bewildering carnage on the quays, she had hesitated, but Artanis had seen the slaughter and hurled herself into the fray to defend her mother’s people. She knew the Lindar, and was certain that they would not have raised a weapon to Fëanaro, for they had few true weapons to raise. Artanis might have been less practiced with a sword than their uncle and his sons, but in her wrath she was no less fearsome. Artë’s bloodied hands (and dress – oh, Valar, her dress had been _dripping_ ) had shocked Irissë far more than Tyelko’s.

They had braved the ice side by side- she had not needed to ask if Artanis would turn back, for she had known her cousin would not beg anyone’s forgiveness for doing what had been necessary. Irissë had lent her what strength she could after Arafinwë abandoned his children. Artë in turn had been her rock when Elenwë had fallen and they thought they would lose Turvo as well. Together, the two of them had shielded little Itarillë as best they could. 

They had taken it in turns to give up their own meager rations to the little girl at mealtimes, and split what remained to the other between them – until Irissë’s father had noticed and furiously insisted that they too needed to eat properly and sat all three girls down in his tent to make sure that they did. Irissë liked to think Atto had been a little bit proud of them for it, but she wasn’t sure and had never asked, for no one liked to think on that time.

Artanis had been as shaken as any of them by Arakano’s death – and maybe more so, for after they laid him to rest, Artë had been struck by one of her visions. She would not speak of it after, but Irissë had seen the look in her eyes. She did not ask, for she did not want to know what could frighten Artanis. Besides, she was sure that eventually, when she was ready, Artë would tell her. She always did, in the end.

Except she never got the chance this time, because the children of Arafinwë were the only Noldor permitted to cross the boundary of Thingol’s protected land, and Irissë was not the only one whose older brothers fretted that she should have been made to stay in Aman.

Findarato had taken Artanis to Menegroth and left her there in the care of the king and queen– and Irissë had not even had letters since Turvo had shut her away from the world in Ondolindë. Two hundred years and she knows nothing of Artanis, save that she has married a prince of the Sindar.

And this is the first time she’s ever had anyone to talk to about it, because her brothers had their own heartaches, and her father did not need the reminder that their relationship with the Sindaran was so fragile that only her cousins were welcome there- and even they had been sent away for a time when Elwë learned the full truth of Alqualondë. 

Her husband was silent for several minutes when she finished.

“Celeborn is a worthy ellon, and your Artanis a lucky elleth,” Eol finally told her quietly. “Though among our people she is known as Galadriel.”

Irissë chewed at her lip. She knew what he would say next.

“You too will need a new name, wife,” he continued. “Princess of the golodhrim or not, you are the lady of Nan Elmoth now. For myself, I care not what tongue you prefer for daily use so long as you are not unhappy. But Thingol is not only my king but my uncle - I can hardly announce to him that I have wed Irissë Nolofinwiel.”

She was well aware how the Sindar usually translated her name, and she liked it not.

“I do not care for the sound of Ireth,” Irissë murmured in protest.

Even if it kept the meaning of her name, it smacked too much of all she did not wish to recall, the endless sniping about whether Miriel was Serindë or Þerindë, her uncle- or was he her half-uncle?- and his madness slowly tearing their family apart. Even her father’s name rendered in Sindarin – Fingolfin, emphasizing that he was indeed his father’s son – was the sound of endless fighting, a reminder of the doom hanging over them. She would not answer to Ireth; Fingolfiniel would be hard enough to stomach.

She was drawn back to the present by warm arms wrapping around her, her husband assuring her without a word that she is safe here with him – and despite the harshness of life in Beleriand, she believed him. She felt more secure in the fragile shelter of his arms than she did in the stone walls of her brother’s hidden city.

“You need not answer to it if you do not like it. Celeborn is not the only one who can gift his beloved a new name.”

She raised a curious eyebrow. 

“Oh? What name would you bestow, my lord?” she asked archly.

“Aredhel,” he replied, with a smirk that ought to have infuriated her, but somehow had the opposite effect.

“Noble elf?” she replied after a moment’s thought. 

She supposed other people might think it was entirely complimentary – or perhaps simply a statement of the obvious, daughter of the High King as she is – but she knew perfectly well there was also a bit of ribbing at what her husband saw as Noldorin snobbery.

“You are certainly that,” he grinned. “Aredhel Ar-Feiniel.”

“Ar-Feiniel?” she protested, because she’s quite certain it’s not her white dress he had in mind.

“I was thinking of how you looked on the shore of Lossael,” he grinned. “Though if you dislike Ar-Feiniel, I suppose I could make it Ar-Luiniel, you were turning a most fetching shade of blue in that cold water…”

The wrestling match that provoked postponed any possible discussion.


End file.
